The Power of Touch
by Idan
Summary: Jane muses about the significance of touch. Set during Black Market, 7x04. Second chapter from Lisbon's POV added.
1. Jane

**Disclaimer**: They are mine only in my dreams.

**Author's Note:** I thought I'd explore the romantic dynamic as seen on the show through Jane's eyes.

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><p>I sit in the SUV and try not to imagine what's going on in the jewelry store in too much detail. I got all dressed up to play the role of indulgent fiancé, but then Lisbon suddenly decided Cho was a better choice, and Mr. Special Stoic Agent grunted an "okay" and off they went. They left me to babysit the jewelry expert and nurse my sore throat—and disgruntlement.<p>

I understand why she did it, of course. Lisbon rarely does anything I don't understand after a little thought. And though at first I was shocked that she'd rather pretend to be engaged to a friend than her actual boyfriend, I quickly realized it made sense, in a Lisbon kind of way. Because she can hug and maybe even kiss Cho as part of the job, easy peasy. Meaningless. No emotion involved.

She could never hug or kiss me that way.

No one watching us would ever suspect we were involved, unless they were very good at interpreting brief glances and quick smiles. Lisbon doesn't want the entire Austin field office gossiping about her fickleness, and neither do I, since it would make her unhappy. So at work, we behave the same as we always have. We're friends and longtime partners and nothing more.

But contrary to how I thought things would be, we don't rip each other's clothes off the minute we step in the door of her home or my Airstream. We're usually tired and hungry, so most often she heads for the shower to wash away the day while I cook something to tempt her erratic appetite. Then we snuggle on the couch in front of something mindless on TV, Lisbon relaxing while I distract myself with a book.

Does that sound boring? Let me assure you it's not. When you've spent years holed up in various shacks, attics, and motel rooms with only your own demons for company, coming home to an inviting space, eating a homecooked meal, and cuddling up with the person you love is a priceless gift. Just touching her makes me happy.

The thing is, I spent years not touching, except when I calculated it was necessary. Habit is hard to break, even for me, and it often takes a conscious effort for me to reach out to her. She has the same problem; after keeping her hands off me for years, she's timid about initiating touch. She's getting better, though. Pike got her used to a certain amount of casual contact, so it comes a little more naturally to her.

But here's the thing: once one of us touches the other with even a hint of passion, we go up in flames. It's wildfire, uncontrolled and unpredictable. And potentially just as dangerous. So we're very careful not to set it off anywhere anyone can see.

The first time we made love, after returning from Florida, was something of a surprise. I knew it was inevitable after my declaration and her decision to stay, but I was anxious about it and hopeful I could approach it with some kind of a plan. I was well aware that Lisbon would have expectations, and I wasn't sure I remembered how to make love anymore. Sex, yes; with Lorelei, all I'd had to do was switch off my higher brain functions and let my body have its way. But that wouldn't do for Lisbon.

You see, I'd realized on the way home that remembering how to make love to a woman meant remembering my wife. And I hadn't let myself really do that, not that way. It was too painful to remember that kind of intimacy once it was gone. I couldn't bear to remember being loved so intensely, knowing that love ultimately brought her a horrifying, painful death.

I'm afraid love is always going to be associated with guilt in my mind. Even with Lisbon, I'm acutely aware of the sacrifices she's made for me. And even now that her shining eyes and joyful smiles assure me I'm making her happy, there's always going to be a part of me terrified I'll bring her to a bad end. Like I nearly did during the car theft ring case.

So I was trying my damnedest to put off consummating our relationship until I could get my act together, until Lisbon smiled sweetly at me and shyly put a finger on the tiny triangle of flesh bared by my shirt, stroking lightly. Exploring. Learning what my skin felt like where no one else had touched in so long. Her brilliant eyes watched me, gauging my reaction, prepared to stop if I showed displeasure or distress. And I realized that she knew.

She wasn't expecting a show; she knew what this meant for me. Meant to me. To us.

Released from my anxiety, I returned the touch, moving my fingertips along her collarbone and marveling at how warm and soft she was.

Slowly, giving me plenty of time to stop her, she began unbuttoning my shirt, running her hands over my chest and stomach as they were exposed. Then, finally, she bent to press a warm, wet kiss directly over my heart.

Something broke in me then, that tender gesture flooding my mind with memories of love and passion and a sense of belonging to another person. When Lisbon stood to look at me, she lifted a hand to wipe at my wet cheeks, frowning a little but staying calm.

"What do you need?" she whispered.

"You," I replied, sliding my hands under her shirt. Her skin drew me like a siren's call, demanding I see, touch, and taste it, and from that point on it was all as natural and beautiful as it should be. We connected intimately through touch, more than words or looks, that first time. My body stirs at the memory, missing her, and I take a deep breath to calm it, mindful of the stranger in the backseat.

Lisbon learned the power her touch has over me that first night, but like any other hero in possession of a superpower, she uses it only for good. She knows she can ground me with a single hand, calm me with the lightest kiss. And she knows she can drive me out of my mind by putting one delicate fingertip against my bare skin in certain places.

She's delighted by this evidence that we're equally vulnerable to each other, after years of worrying that she was the susceptible one. And she loves learning the extent of her power, not just in bed, but anytime we're in private.

It's like therapy for me, training myself not to hide my reactions from her when she's trying to figure out where the best place is to pet me to relax me. Or letting her discover that I am in fact ticklish, but only on the backs of my knees.

Or, that first night, showing her that the best way to calm my overwhelmed weeping is to stroke my back while I lay my ear on her heart. Though she added immeasurably to the comfort of touch with her soothing words, letting me know she understood that I needed to grieve and that making love had woken memories and feelings long buried. Her understanding that my intimacy with her was encouraging me to begin my long-delayed healing is a priceless gift; a lesser woman might have been unnerved by her new lover blubbering all over her. But not my Lisbon. She wept with me a little and assured me that whatever I felt was okay, that she was there for me, that I'd get used to being loved again.

I don't deserve such an angel. But I desperately need her.

Ah, at last. Lisbon slides into the driver's seat, the beautiful ring on her finger giving me a pang. It doesn't stay there long, though, as she pulls it off and hands it to the expert in the back seat with no discernible regret.

I'm suddenly profoundly grateful she chose Cho for this assignment. When I put a ring on her finger, I don't want her to ever take it off.

mmm

My cold has settled into solid misery by the time the case is closed, but it was worth it to watch Lisbon get in touch with her inner showman. She could do it without my help if she had to, after watching me all these years. But we both enjoy working together; it adds to the fun.

I smile as I hear her open the Airstream's door, accompanied by the rustle of a brown paper bag that tells me she stopped at my favorite cafe for soup. Tomato today, I hope, though the bean soup was very good.

"How're you feeling?" she calls, coming over to look at me.

"Just tired," I assure her.

"Achy?" She lays her cool fingers against my forehead, and I smile, immediately feeling better.

"A little. Not too bad."

"You'd feel better now if you'd gone to bed when you first got sick, like we all told you to," she chides gently, bending to kiss the spot her fingers just left.

"Mmm," is my only response, because I'm too busy enjoying the feel of her lips. I won't kiss her while I'm sick, and she's been keeping her distance trying to avoid my germs, so this is a treat.

"Hungry?"

"Not really."

"I'll put the soup in the fridge, then. You can reheat it if you get hungry later. Oh, and I got you a grilled cheese to go with it."

"Tomato?" I'm suddenly hopeful.

"Yes. It smells heavenly." Lisbon lifts the lid and takes a sniff before setting the container in the refrigerator.

"That's nice for those who still have their olfactory senses," I sigh.

"Do you want some tea?"

"Not at the moment." My head hurts; I just want her to lie beside me and be still.

"Okay."

I close my eyes, listening as she bustles around the kitchen area. I wonder what other goodies she got me. A blueberry muffin perhaps? I'm finding out that Lisbon is an indulgent nurse, willing to spoil me if it will make me happy for a moment. And her desire to take care of me even over her protestations that she doesn't want to get sick is touching.

"Can I get you anything? An aspirin? I think you've got a low grade fever."

"Just sit with me," I ask.

A moment later I feel the bed dip slightly as she sits down, and her fingers slide gently into my hair, massaging my scalp. She's not quite got the pressure points right, but I'm not going to complain.

"Poor baby," she murmurs. "I've never known you to get sick before. Am I bad for you?"

I reach up to take her hand, bringing it down to press a kiss into her palm. "No. You're very, very good for me."

"But maybe I should let you get more sleep, hm?" She strokes my cheek, then withdraws her hand. "I brought you some oranges. And some of that Chinese tea for flu."

"Thank you." I want to beg her not to go yet, but I don't want her to get sick. Though that ship has probably sailed.

"I should go."

I hear the reluctance in her voice, so I pat the bed beside me. "You can't spare a minute to tell me about the case?"

She chuckles, knowing I don't care about the paperwork and official charges. Then she swings her legs up to lie down beside me. "Abbott's happy. And he wants you to take some sick leave until you feel better. Cho says if you get him sick, he'll throw up on your couch."

"And we all know he is not a man to make idle threats," I sigh. "I'll stay home if you'll stay with me."

"Jane," she sighs.

"Just tell Abbott you caught my cold and you're going to make me suffer for it."

"I don't want to lie to him."

"Then tell him I'm being a big baby and you need to watch over me to make sure I don't do anything to set back my recovery."

"That, I could do." She smiles a little. "We'll see. I'll check on you first thing in the morning, okay?"

"Okay."

She rubs the back of my hand with her pinkie knuckle. "You need to get some sleep."

I'm not going to waste my precious time with her sleeping. I'm going to lie here and savor her warmth and scent here in my bed for as long as she'll stay. I want more of this, more of her. Watching her today, I thought what a great team we are, how we could do anything we set our minds to. The FBI is the pinnacle of law enforcement; there's nothing more for Lisbon to achieve, except promotion to a desk job like Abbott's. Is that worth sticking around for? Has she thought about our future, about what other possibilities might be in store?

"You were very good. Very good."

"We were very good," she corrects me. "It was fun, talking to all those people with you whispering in my ear. I'd do it again."

I chuckle. She'd never have admitted that before we became lovers. It warms my heart that I'm not the only one trying to be more open.

"What if we just left? Just took off?"

Her voice is troubled. "Like on vacation?"

"No. Just leave. Go someplace different. Move on."

"What do you want to do?" Oh, she is not liking this one little bit. But I won't push her; I just want to plant a seed.

"Mm, I don't know. But are we really going to work for the FBI for the rest of our lives? Look at dead people, chase bad guys?"

"It's who I am, Jane."

"I know." Except it's not. But it's going to take time for her to learn to see herself independently of her job. "Just thoughts. Just thinking."

She's too disturbed to buy my feeble attempt to set her at ease. "Good night," she says, getting up. "I'll come check on you in the morning, okay?" She rubs my arm briefly to let me know she loves me in spite of my upsetting her, since she can't kiss me.

"Okay." There's no point trying to keep her when she needs to go off by herself and think. She'll bring it up when she's ready to talk about a future she hasn't yet imagined for us. "Good night."

A second later, she sneezes. "Sorry," I add, and I am. Sick Lisbon will be grumpy, snarky, and sulky about missing work, which of course I'll insist on.

But I'm looking forward to it. I'll use everything I know about soothing her aches and calming her with caresses, and I'll talk with her when she's bored or fretful and lie quietly with her when she just wants company.

And when we're both feeling up to it, I'll kiss her on that secret spot on the back of her neck that turns her into a wildcat.

I grin, yawn, and finally fall asleep, knowing I'll be able to touch her again tomorrow.


	2. Lisbon

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the wonderful response to this story! I thought I was done, but Lisbon wanted her say.

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><p>I wake up with a sore throat and the beginnings of a bad headache, and after staggering around the kitchen making coffee, I give in to the undeniable fact that I've caught Jane's bug. I should have just stayed with him last night, though my bed is way more comfortable. Maybe he's feeling well enough today to come over. Though he should probably just rest; I'm going to be miserable company for a while. I hate being sick.<p>

My voice is croaky as I leave Abbott a voicemail, and I'm glad I filed my report on the jewelry case yesterday while I still could. At least he won't be expecting one from his consultant, so I don't need to worry about trying to coax Jane into anything.

It's still weird not to think of Jane as my consultant. Even now when I can call him my boyfriend, letting go of our old relationship is hard. He was always mine, from the beginning, though at first it was a mixed blessing. Being responsible for his behavior was tough, and I had plenty of sleepless nights because I was responsible for his safety. In return I got a case solution rate that made others green with envy and, eventually, a loyal friend.

I still have the friend; since we're keeping our new relationship under wraps, our behavior on the job hasn't changed. I still have the sleepless nights, but fewer of them, and sometimes they're due to sex rather than stress. That night after we closed the car theft ring case was a good example. Jane couldn't let go of me and couldn't keep still, he was so hyped up, so he treated me to a marathon session I couldn't have imagined in my wildest dreams.

He's still my responsibility to protect, mostly because we both prefer it that way. But I have an extra responsibility to him now that we're involved. He won't stop to think before trying to help me, won't even hesitate before jumping in front of guns with nothing but a smile and a story. It occurred to me that night that he probably thought getting himself killed was a good solution if he couldn't stop them from killing me.

It's terrifying. But it's not something I can change. I can't ask him to stand by and lose another person he loves.

It worries me, but it's an unavoidable part of our jobs. And while Jane might think about walking away, I can't imagine ever being anything but a cop. But if I had to choose between Jane and the job, which would it be?

Could I really be such a workaholic I'd throw away a good man who loves me—and is the only man I've ever really loved—for a job, no matter how fulfilling I find it? Wouldn't I hate myself, waking up alone in a cold bed and remembering how warm he was, how I loved his voice first thing in the morning, how amazing the sex was?

Yes. Of course I would. I'm never giving Jane up, after waiting so long to be with him.

I just can't imagine what I would do if I quit the FBI. Aside from some waitressing in high school and an admin job in campus security in college, I've never done anything else. I'm not qualified for anything outside law enforcement.

But I bet Jane would come up with something. If he suggested leaving, he'd have a plan. Knowing him, the plan would involve winning obscene amounts of money at various casinos around the world and going on an extended vacation. Which I could see for a while, but for the next thirty or forty years?

That assumes we won't get sick of each other or, to be specific, that he won't get bored with me. If he met someone clever and ambitious like Erica Flynn but who wasn't a murderer, he might find her a better fit for the lifestyle he wants.

The thing is, he trusts me. And while he has me, he won't look at anyone else. He's got a loyal heart. There might be somebody better for him out there, but he won't find her while he's with me. So maybe, if he wants to ditch the FBI, I should choose the job for his sake?

No. Because that would be a lie, wouldn't it? And we're done lying to each other. And if Jane says he'll never stop loving me, he means it. Just like I know I'll never stop loving him, no matter what happens between us. I have to trust our love. I have to trust him to know what he wants and needs and not second guess him. Just like all the times I went along with his plans to catch bad guys. Those usually worked out okay. Mostly.

Ugh. I'm too sick to think about this.

I finish my coffee, then take my phone back to bed and text Jane. _How are you this morning?_

His reply comes so quickly I know I didn't wake him. _Just tired. How are you?_

_I got your bug. Already told Abbott I'm staying home today._

_Do you need anything? Do you have tissues and medicine? I could bring some over._

_No need. I'm just going to sleep through it._ Like he should have done, except he couldn't leave the case unfinished. I can sympathize with that, so I'm not going to complain about it.

_Chicken soup?_

_I have food_, I remind him. The last time he cooked for me, he crammed my cabinets and fridge full of what he considers healthy eating options. The oranges I took him yesterday were actually ones he bought for me. Maybe I should have eaten them, I think. _I'm just going back to sleep._

I take a break to sneeze and cough, then head for the bathroom. Ah, I do have some cold and flu medicine. I take a dose, then crawl back into bed to find another text: _Rest well, and drink a lot of fluid. Water, not coffee. I'll check on you later._

_OK. You rest too._

_Love you._

I smile at the screen like an idiot. _Love you too._

Then I try to get comfortable on my pillow and hope I'll fall back asleep soon.

mmm

It takes a long time for me to fall back to sleep, and a coughing fit wakes me up not very long after. I blow my nose, cough some more, and sit up, hoping that will help. The room spins a little, and while I'm waiting for that to stop, I realize I hear someone in the kitchen. "Jane?" I call.

He appears a second later, wearing a navy pinstriped apron I didn't realize either of us owned and carrying a cup of tea. "How are you?"

I open my mouth and start coughing. Jane sits beside me and rubs my back, then offers me the teacup. "Honey and lemon," he says. "It'll help."

He rubs my back while I sip, and I lean against him, grateful that he's here even though he should probably still be in bed himself.

"I'm making you my homemade chicken noodle soup," he says. "Guaranteed to cure what ails you. I'm going to make a second batch later and freeze it, in case I get sick again."

"I would have gotten you some chicken noodle soup, but you asked for bean or tomato," I point out.

"I'm particular about my chicken noodle soup," he says.

Big surprise there. It probably has some obscure secret ingredient. Brandy, maybe. Jane's cooking is a weird mix of gourmet snobbery, carnie grub, and traditional Irish food. Maybe it's whiskey in the soup.

Of course, I can't complain. At 12 I knew how to cook simple kid foods, so that was what my brothers ate growing up, and I never had time to branch out much. If Jane had asked me for chicken noodle soup he would have gotten Campbell's. My brothers did just fine on that when they were sick.

"Drink your tea," Jane reminds me, so I do. I can't really taste it, but it feels good on my throat, and the steam is helping me breathe.

"You need to rest. Don't overdo it," I tell him. My brothers were like that, eager to jump up and run around as soon as they felt even a little better. They never listened when I told them they'd get better faster if they let their bodies focus on getting rid of the crud instead of playing football in the backyard.

"Cooking isn't that strenuous. And I took a cab over here," he says, smiling. "I'm not so weak I can't take care of my best girl."

"Best girl?" I snort into the teacup. I'd better be his only girl.

He reads the thought off me, of course, and says in that raspy whisper that makes me melt every time, "My only love."

We haven't talked about being exclusive, just sort of assumed it. We haven't talked about our relationship at all, really, just doing what feels right. I'm fine with that, except now because I'm sick and cranky, I'm kind of weirded out by it.

"I'm not going anywhere, Teresa," he assures me, rubbing his cheek on my hair. "I want to be where you are, whether it's your sickbed or the FBI. You don't need to worry about what I said yesterday, okay? I was just rambling."

He wasn't, but I appreciate that he's trying to reassure me. "Okay."

"After I finish the soup, I'm going to take a nap."

"Good. With me?"

"Unless you'd rather I take the couch."

"No." I finish the tea and he sets the cup down on the nightstand, then hugs me as I lay my head on his shoulder. He's warm and comforting and makes me feel a little less miserable. "I like having you here," I whisper.

"Good. Because I like being here," he whispers back.

I cough again, and Jane reaches over to flip my pillow, then eases me down to lay my flushed face on the cool surface. "Go back to sleep, love," he says. "When you wake up, there'll be soup."

I'm already half asleep as he bends to kiss my cheek, then gets up.

I can take care of myself, but it's nice not to have to. I'm glad he's here.

mmm

When I wake up, I find Jane sound asleep facing me, curled up on top of the covers, still fully dressed except for his jacket and shoes. He has his hands tucked between his knees like he's cold, so I fold the quilt over him, turning on my side to face him.

I love watching him sleep; I always have. In the beginning it was because that was the only time I was sure he wasn't putting on a show, and I hoped to learn more about the real man. Now I like looking at him closely without him feeling self conscious, giving me the luxury of memorizing the little lines around his eyes and mouth, the tiny imperfections that make him more, not less, handsome.

Giving in to temptation, I lay my hand on his cheek, stroking lightly with my thumb. He smiles a little, making me smile in return.

All these years I thought Jane didn't like to be touched, but I know now he's been starved for it. It was part of him denying himself out of guilt for losing his family, thinking he didn't deserved to be loved or touched with tenderness. Now that he's getting past that, he responds instantly to any little touch I give him, like an eager puppy whose owner has been gone for a while. It isn't about sex, either, which is good because I feel like crap at the moment. It's about him feeling loved.

I wish I'd figured this out months ago. If I'd been brave enough to start touching him regularly when we started working together again, maybe I'd have seen how he felt about me without dragging us both—and Marcus—through my indecision and then my wrong decision. God, what I did to them both. Marcus must feel betrayed, I think, but what really breaks my heart is the thought of how badly Jane must have hurt trying to let me go.

I'll never hurt him again if I can help it. If that means giving up my career, well, I'll have to find a way to be okay with that, I guess.

My hand moves into his hair, ruffling the curls and scratching lightly at his scalp. Jane relaxes out of his curled up position, stretching out and shifting toward me. If I weren't feverish and sweaty, I'd scoot over and cuddle him, but that will wait until I'm better.

It takes so little to make him happy. I always thought he'd be pretty high maintenance, I guess because he is such a high maintenance consultant, but he isn't. He just wants to be with me. If he can lay his head in my lap while we're watching TV, so much the better.

He's a beautiful man, inside and out. He's been hurt, yes, and he may never heal totally, but he's trying his best to be good for me. It's more than I deserve, better than I could ever have hoped for. And being in the right relationship shows me how far off target I was with Marcus. I hope he'll find someone soon to make him realize that too.

I focus on Jane again, just as his eyes flutter and open. He gives a sleepy smile when he sees I'm awake and says, "Hey."

"Hey," I manage to respond without coughing.

"How are you feeling?"

This time I'm not so lucky. A horrible, deep coughing fit leaves me out of breath, and when it's over Jane moves my hair out of my face and says, "I'll get you some water. Or soup if you want it."

"Soup," I croak out. Something warm and nourishing sounds perfect.

A few minutes later I'm sitting against the headboard with Jane's arm around my shoulders as we sip soup from mugs. I can't taste it much, but it's full of chopped up vegetables and buttery soft noodles, and it goes down easy. "Good," I tell him.

"I'm glad you like it," he replies. "My mother used to make it. I found the recipe after she died. I made it for Charlotte when she was sick."

I lay my head on his shoulder, touched at being included in this chain of people Jane loved. "It's wonderful. Thank you."

He kisses my hair. "You're welcome, anytime." He's quiet for a minute, then says, "I'll always be here for you, Teresa. In sickness and in health."

If any other guy said something like that, I'd run for the hills. But when Jane says it, it just makes me feel safe. Loved.

I lay my free hand on his. "Me too."

He threads his fingers through mine, and we finish our soup. Connected. Together.

I may feel like crap, but I've never been happier.


End file.
